Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

bothering you. I think it’s those Fulton boys. First Joey Figlio, now Frankie Ralston. I tell you, we can keep them away from you, Ellie.”

Joey. Damn. Wallowing in my self-reproach, I’d completely forgotten to contact Orlando Figlio. What did it matter, anyhow? Darleen was gone. No need now to pay social visits on the Figlios.

“I’m not worried about Frankie Ralston,” I said. “He’s harmless.”

“Well, Joey Figlio’s locked up tight at Fulton. No need to worry about him either.”

“That school couldn’t hold him if he had a handle. Arnold Dienst told me he’s escaped on several occasions already. Fulton is no Alcatraz.”

“I’ll ask the city police to watch your place. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re going to ask Chief Finn to look out for me?” I said.

“Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check in with Fulton to make sure your boy’s still there.”

Frank pushed his way out of the booth, forcing a squeal from the table, then sauntered over to the phone booth and stuffed himself inside. He didn’t close the folding door. Probably had forgotten his shoehorn and figured it was too much trouble without it. I heard the jingle of change slipping down the slot then the whir of the dial as he wrenched it around and around. He asked in his deep voice to speak to a night guard. A few moments later, he squeezed back into the booth opposite me and smiled.

“Everything’s fine. Said there hasn’t been one escape today. So stop worrying about Joey Figlio and Frankie Ralston.”

I picked at my fingernails and probably chewed my lip. He was far off the mark; I was thinking of Ted Russell and just wanted to slither away.

“Ellie, my dad taught me to finish what I started. No matter what. He said he didn’t mind if I didn’t do anything at all. But if I started it, I had to finish.”

“Cool your jets, Frank,” I said finally, thinking it was preferable to waste an hour pawing through a junior-high-school girl’s locker than to explain the true reason behind my gloom. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

“Don’t take it so hard. There’ll be other stories. Better ones. I shouldn’t say this, but you’re good at this newspaper stuff. You run circles around George Walsh.”

I grunted a thank-you.

“Eight forty-five okay? I’ll pick you up,” he said, sliding out of the booth like the Queen Mary down the launch.

MONDAY, JANUARY 9, 1961

I rose early the next morning and packed a bag of clothes: a couple of skirts, blouses, shoes, toiletries, and underthings. After some toast and coffee, I emptied the perishables from my icebox into the trash, then I settled down on the sofa and picked up the letter Fadge had wanted to use as a coaster. It had been sitting there unopened for nearly a month. I had been either too busy or too stubborn to open it. I knew what was inside, of course, but some things are just hard to look at.

December 1, 1960

Dear Miss Stone,

As discussed in our first meeting in February of this year, a proper burial is an essential tradition in the completion of a life. The ritual honors the departed in a holy ceremony and provides a measure of solace and peace for the loved ones left behind. We encourage mourners to show respect for the departed by fasting, sitting shivah, and donating to the needy or religious organizations of their choosing.

We also implore you not to neglect an important part of this ritual: the selection and placement of the headstone. You will recall that we showed you a wide variety of options in February, and you expressed interest in a simple granite marker. I’m writing now to remind and beseech you to consider finalizing the arrangements at your earliest convenience. The yahrzeit is fast approaching, and you should not fail to mark this solemn occasion.

Please telephone or wire us with any queries you may have in this time of somber reflection and remembrance. We, at Berg and Raphael Statuary, are at your service, should you require assistance.

Sincerely,

Moises Rafael

I folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into my purse.

I waited on the porch, soaking in the warmth of the day. It wasn’t exactly swimsuit weather, but the forecast called for temperatures touching sixty by early afternoon. The sheriff arrived as promised at a quarter to nine. I climbed into the car and smiled good morning. Frank switched on the radio: instrumental rubbish not rising to the level of swing or jazz. It sounded old and dusty. The kind of stuff you’d hear in a men’s barbershop. He maintained silence for the ten-minute drive to the school.

We met Assistant Principal Brossard in his office a little after nine. He offered us coffee, but I wanted to get the search of the locker over with. I had places to go. Still, I wanted to have a word with him privately about Ted Russell. If I was bothered about my own indiscretion with the handsome teacher, I was outraged that he may have had his way with a fifteen-year-old girl. But I had to speak to him alone, away from the sheriff.

Brossard led Frank and me to a bank of gray lockers in the first-floor corridor. There we met a Negro janitor, who was carrying a long metal bolt cutter. Brossard consulted a slip of paper in his hand for the number of Darleen’s locker. A moment later, standing before number 432, Brossard nodded to the janitor, who made short work of the padlock, clamping the jaws of the bolt cutter around the shackle and biting it off with a smart click.

“Thanks,” said the sheriff, pushing past the assistant principal, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure you don’t need some help?” he asked.

“I can manage,” said Frank, without even looking back over his shoulder as he yanked the locker door open.

Reluctantly, Brossard shoved off, taking the janitor with him, and left us alone in the corridor. Frank